


No Damsel

by tielan



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Recovery, Tumblr Prompt, pseudo-adopting-the-runaway-i-ran-into AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-30 05:47:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3925156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tielan/pseuds/tielan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problem, Stark says, is that Steve has a thing for damsels. The problem, Steve thinks, is that Stark is talking out of his ass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Damsel

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Mentioned/Implied partner abuse.
> 
> A very very very long time ago, there was the Tumblr AU meme. And catpella requested _Steve Rogers, pseudo-adopting-the-runaway-i-ran-into AU_. So I'm polishing up a few oldies while gearing up for the MCU AU exchange. :)

The problem, Stark says, is that Steve has a thing for damsels.

The problem, Steve thinks, is that Stark is talking out of his ass.

Besides which, anyone looking at Maria Hill would instantly know she’s no damsel. She just...needs a refuge for a while. And Natasha vouched for her, which Stark of course says is no guarantee, since Natasha is the kind of woman who’d gut you as soon as fuck you. Steve noted the faint smile that twitched Barton’s mouth at Stark’s words, but the other guy didn’t say anything, just shifted on his couch cushion and stretched out his legs.

But Natasha’s word is enough for Steve. And besides, given the blank, careful way that Maria navigates around him in the apartment, stiff as a soldier on parade, this is not a woman who is going to faint, weep, scream, or have hysterics.

God help whatever man left her with the black eye and the cracked rib, though, because if she doesn’t beat him to a pulp, Steve might very well ask for a name and address.

Okay, so he _might_ have a hero complex. Just a small one.

“I have a friend who can look at the rib,” Steve tells her while he’s cooking breakfast one morning. The blue eyes stare blankly at him for a moment, as though trying to remember who he is. “He’s a doctor – a medical doctor. He won’t charge.”

And if Bruce does charge a fee, Steve will pay the bill. But Bruce won’t charge.

Although _he_ might demand a name and address in payment. Bruce doesn’t like abusers. They make him angry. Stark claims the cool and casual tone in which Bruce says this is worthy of a sociopath, to which Bruce merely gives Stark a Look.

“What can he do, apart from kissing it better?”

The words ‘ _if kissing it better is all you want, I can do that_ ’ hover on Steve’s lips before he stuffs his Inappropriate into the back closet of his mind, and makes himself suggest, “Painkillers? Checking it’s setting right? There are a lot of things can go wrong—”

“It’s fine.”

He wants to push it, but he doesn’t. She’s a grown woman, more than capable of looking after herself...

But he calls Bruce all the same, outside and across the street, one eye on his windows just in case of…something. He’s not sure what, but _something_. “I’m worried,” he says after he’s explained the situation.

“So am I.” Pause. “About you. You don’t do strays, Steve.”

“If you listen to Stark, I do.”

Steve takes a deep breath and stares blindly up at the windows of his apartment, trying to parse everything that’s been going through his head the last few days. Gleaning the woman Maria was before from conversations with Natasha. Discussions with Sam who worked in all kinds of abuse counselling for years.

“Someone did a number on her. Not just on her body – on her mind. She’s not—” He hesitates over saying this – what does he know after a week keeping an eye on her? “She’s independent. Tough. This guy – he took the time to manipulate her, wormed his way into her trust, and then broke it. Twisted it,” he corrects, because she’s not broken – far from it. “She’s been burned – and badly.”

He asked Sam for advice - no names, no specifics, just how to help, what he should and shouldn't do. And Sam stared at him for a long moment, then answered Steve's questions and only asked, " _If you need help, you know where to find me, right?_ "

On the other end of the line, Bruce sighs. “Is she steel or tissue?”

“Steel.” It doesn’t even take thought.

“Then she’ll come out of this. Probably with scars, but we’ve all got a few. Some of us more than a few. That sounds blunt and cruel now, but believe me it’s not. You, on the other hand…”

“She’s not trying to con me, Bruce.”

“I think I’d prefer it if she was.” But Bruce won’t explain that statement, and only rings off, saying, “Look, keep an eye on her, and if things change…I’ll come around and see her myself.”

As he crosses the road behind a Dodge pickup and winces a little at the chilly gust that slips inside his collar, Steve reflects that he’s not sure if that’s a promise or a threat.

Well, he’ll worry about that when Bruce starts bashing down his door.

He hears the gasping when he reaches the landing. Then he’s the one shoving the door open and running into the apartment. A dozen horrific scenarios cross his mind – she’s bumped the rib and broken it completely, her ex has found where she’s holed up and is strangling her, she’s found something in his kitchen which she’s deathly allergic to...

Maria’s sitting on the couch, her hands by her sides, staring into nothing and panting. It takes Steve a moment to process that her muscles are rigid, her knuckles are white where her hands grip the edge of the cushion, and her whole posture is very carefully contained and composed.

“Maria?” She looks at him when he says her name, her eyes wide and terrified. “What’s wrong?”

She looks away, colour staining her cheeks. And Steve starts to reach for the phone, intending to call Bruce, but one hand unclenches its death grip on the couch cushion and reaches out to him, almost blindly.

The chill of her flesh is a shock, but he laces his fingers into hers. “It’s okay,” he says, sitting down next to her on the couch. “Hey, it’s okay.” He doesn’t know what this is, and he wants to call Bruce – he could – his left hand is still free, but—

Too late, he realises the phone is now sitting on the bench where he laid it down when she stretched a hand out to him. And when he starts up, saying, “Look, I’m going to call Bruce—” Her grip tightens.

Steve has never gotten a woman pregnant; if he ever had he would’ve been there at the birth, and he would know just exactly how hard a woman can grip when she needs to offload pain or panic. However, his current answer is, _Pretty damn hard._

“Okay,” he says, “we’ll just—It’ll be okay, we’ll just sit here...” And he eases himself closer, so they’re side by side and he can rest the back of her hand on his thigh – extra warmth, and she’s trembling, so maybe she needs it—

Abruptly, Steve recalls something Pepper said last month about Tony having panic attacks. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but either go into tech-fugue or curl around her and hold on for dear life. Is this a panic attack? Does he need to hold her?

Would she even let him? He half-reaches out to push away the strands of hair curtaining her face, then pulls his hand back before Maria can flinch. _Give her something to focus on other than herself._  “Do you want me to talk?”

“Please.”

One hoarse syllable, and Steve has no idea where to start. So he tells her about his job with the comics house and the superhero story he’s writing. “She’s a Muslim teenager – which, yeah, I know it sounds a bit odd, but Sam pointed out that everyone wants hero stories about people like them, too, and the editor let us run with it. And it’s been...interesting. Educational. And a bit scary, too, when doing research – the things you don’t know you don’t know. Natasha’s been helpful with that...”

Steve rambles on about his day job, about the complexities of putting a story together with a storyboard, and keeping it both interesting and real. He talks about the various people he’s working with at the comics house, about the things he saw today on his morning jog. He tells her about bumping into his high school sweetheart two weeks ago, who’s since gotten married and had a couple of kids and is in some kind of government work she can’t or won’t talk about. He tells her how it was at once both weird and wonderful to sit and chat with her over a cup of coffee. He talks about feeling a little bit out of it in the last year – like he’s drifting along with no clear plan on where he should be or what he should be doing. He talks about his growing concern with his college buddy, Bucky, who's been a bit of a wanderer the last few years, but has completely dropped off the map in the last six months – both physically and on social media.

And somewhere along the way, while he’s talking, Maria’s tension eases until her breathing’s smoothed out and she’s not gripping the couch. And Steve pauses to find an hour has passed, his butt is starting to go numb, and his voice is slightly hoarse from talking.

Maria shifts, and the movement breaks the contact along their shoulders and hips and thighs. And Steve lets her go, but he misses the warmth of her as she stretches her hand and frees it from his grasp.

“Thanks,” she says after a moment, low and throaty, her eyes deep blue as they meet his. “For...for letting me... For _that_.”

“You’re welcome,” he tells her, watching her lashes drop – long, curved lashes that make him want to stroke them with one fingertip. He tucks his hand into his jacket pocket to keep from putting desire to action. “So,” he says, lightly, “now that you know my life story, maybe you’ll tell me yours?”

She stares at her hands. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Oh, come on,” Steve says, “you didn’t spring fully-formed out of your father’s head, did you?”

“Roman mythology?”

“Not quite. Greek. Co-opted by the Romans. But the gist is that everyone has a backstory.” Steve looks at her, hopefully. “No?”

“It’s not important.”

“Well,” he says as lightly as he can manage, “at least tell me the name of your ex?”

Maria’s face lifts, her expression startled and pale. Then, “No.” And that’s definite. So definite that she stands up, and steps away, wincing as she straightens.

The wince etches acid in Steve’s gut – the sign of pain, and her loyalty to the guy who brought her low so he could feel like a big man. He feels flayed raw – ridiculous as it is. He’s nothing to her – just a temporary shelter, a refuge for a week or two – and it makes him sharp and angry, even though he knows it’s not his right.

“He doesn’t deserve your protection,” he says as she heads for the hallway and her room.

She pauses at the dining table, long fingers resting on the tablecloth. “I know.” Then, meeting his eyes unflinching, she adds, “I’m not protecting _him.”_

And Steve sits there and stares at her as she drops her gaze, turns, and goes into her room, closing the door quietly behind her.

The problem, Stark says, is that Steve has a thing for damsels.

The problem with that, Steve thinks, is that Maria Hill is no damsel.


End file.
